


Nothing Good Gets Away

by auselysium



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, First Person, Fluffy Ending, M/M, That christmas phone call/meeting would have been different, meet Trish Oliver's fiance, mentions of Elio/OMC and OFC, more from the book than the movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 08:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13430763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auselysium/pseuds/auselysium
Summary: Oliver returns to NYC after his summer in B.  Through phone calls and letters, he and Elio stay close, promising to return to Italy for Christmas.  What happens when Oliver's on/off girlfriend shows up and his mother gives him his grandmother's engagement ring?





	Nothing Good Gets Away

**Author's Note:**

> If it is right, it happens—The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away. -- John Steinbeck, letter to his son, 1958

I hate everything the second I step off the plane.

The clothes, the flat, musicless language, the dirt that is simply that, filth, not the fine layer of dust that exists on every surface in B., the result of ages of civilization living, loving and dying on that very spot.

Delta Airlines manages to leave my luggage on the tarmac at Heathrow.  So now I’m here, back in New York, with half my things and half my heart.  

I take NJ Transit to Penn Station. The track is dark oil-stained steel and condensation drips from the peeling ceiling, giving you the impression that it’s raining in doors.  Whose idea had it been to fly into Newark anyway?  

The crush of people rushing between trains is overwhelming and I find myself pressing to the sides of stairways, just trying to find any space.  I take a cab instead.

I’d grown up in a small college town in Connecticut, a faculty brat, Professor’s son.  My mother never worked, besides keeping up appearances. The college was a good one but not a great one and there was literally nothing going for the town besides the school.

Getting away from that place was the goal for me and my classmates.  The trendy thing was to go to Arizona State or UCLA.  Others went to one of the Maine schools or something in Massachusetts, which just seemed like trading one boring town for another to me.  Some people joined the Army, others just hopped in a van with some buddies and some weed and were never heard from again.

But my eyes had always been set on New York.  It is the antithesis of everything I’d known growing up.  A bold, exciting mix of humanity, edgy and gritty, where people can be anything and find their niche.  I’d loved it before I’d really even knew it.  That first day in New York was one of the best days of my life.  

But now, this is the last place on the whole fucking planet I want to be.  I hate it for what it isn’t.  Hate what this return has cost me.  Nothing could have softened the transition; the differences are too striking; the loss all too consuming.  

Leave it to Elio to make me hate my own city.

I hate my apartment too, when I arrive.  It’s small and smells like there’s a gas leak, but every time someone comes to check it they say it’s fine. I hate the rickety elevator, its grinding gears.  The feel of my keys in my hand.  It’s all so ridiculous.

“Oliver, you’re back!”

Jeffery, my roommate, my best friend since undergrad.  We’d moved to the city together, our next big adventure.  He’s nobody at a big brokerage firm downtown but makes more than three times my grad stipend.  We split the rent and he buys all the beer.

His hug is so chummy, so puritanically platonic.  A quick step in, a pat to the back for safety.   _Frat boy_ , I think, trying really hard not to hate him too.  I miss the quick kisses to either cheek, the effervescent warmth that came with every Italian greeting.  

“You’re so tan, man.  You look great!”

I mumble a thanks, smile. I feel like shit.  Would he judge me?  If I just broke down on his shoulder?  

I’m not sure why I’d felt so intent on not crying.  I’d held it in at the train station in Rome probably only because Elio had too, his jaw set with determination.  There had only been those awful, biting tears as I saw the Manhattan skyline for the first time, giving me no hope for reprieve.

Less than 24 hours ago we were still in bed together at the pensione in Rome.  My heart can’t comprehend it.

“You hungry? Want to grab a beer?  I need to hear all about how ‘Ollie did Italy’.”

He’s grinning at his joke and his implication.  I want to punch him.

“I’m fucking exhausted,” I say, putting on a show.  “Can we catch up tomorrow?  I just need to sleep horizontally and make a phone call.”

“Trish?”  

That name is like something from a foreign language I used to understand but have since forgotten all of the vocabulary.  I hadn’t needed that name, hadn’t thought it, for the last 6 plus weeks. It belongs to a different version of me.

“What?”  I say, blinking.  “No.  No.  My hosts in Italy.  They wanted me to let them know when I got back.”

“Course, we can catch up another time,” he starts to leave.  “Just so you know though, she came by the other day, asking when you were getting home.  You should call her.”

Jeff leaves and I lean against my closed door.  

I shouldn’t have come back here at all.

*

_“I don’t want to lose you.”_

_“You won’t.  We’ll write.  I’ll write you as soon as we get off the phone.”_

_“Me too.  And I’ll call from the post office.  It’s more private that way if I speak in English.”_

_“It’ll be expensive.”_

_“I don’t care.  --  We’ll be back in B. for Christmas.  You could come too, if you wanted.”_

_“I can’t wait that long.  Thanksgiving break.”_

_“We’ll be in Milan in November.”_

_“Then I’ll come to Milan in November.  You have turkey in Milan?”_

_“No!...Just promise me the next time I’m here, you’ll be here too.  I couldn’t stand it otherwise.”_

_“Christmas then, I promise.”_

*

I go running in Central Park to find someplace green in the mornings.  It’s a poor replacement for actual nature and I find myself thinking that maybe the only reason us New Yorkers love Central Park so much is simply because we don’t have any other option.  

I run hard, headphones over my ears and my walkman in my hands.  I blast music that I think won’t remind me of Italy, a new Billy Joel album that was released while I was away that Jeff says I have to check out.  I like it.  But then the song _The Longest Time_ starts and I have to turn it off.  The words...they’re too much.

I’m 24 years old.  I’ve felt the pang of love before. But never like this.   _Never like this._ Does he understand how much he’s changed me?

I shower.  Jeff is already at work and I’m glad.  I pretend like I’m not actively avoiding him.  I don’t want to talk about Italy.  How can I?  Ok, maybe I could talk about the food or the bay or the writing I accomplished.  But the rest?  How could I put it into words?

I drop two letters to Elio in different mailboxes in hope they’ll arrive on different days on my way to campus.  The chair of the Columbia classics department, my boss/advisor/mentor thumbs through the revisions on my manuscript, his gold reading glasses perched dangerously on the edge of his nose

“This is all really good work, Oliver.  It seems like your time in Italy was very successful.”

I agree.  

“This is a real feather in your cap, you know.  Samuel doesn’t just take anyone in.  Your time there and this book will be a real boon to you when you start applying for jobs in the spring.”

The idea seems daunting.  

“How are the Perlman’s?”  He continues.  “Such a lovely family.  I haven’t seen Samuel in,” he blows a puff of air through his lips.  “15 years?”

“They’re doing well.  They were wonderful hosts.”

He smiles.  “And their son...”

The name, that is more precious to me that air, more familiar than the feel of my own skin, escapes him.

“Elio.”

It’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud since my return and it’s like I’ve just revealed a secret.  Did I say it too quickly?  With too much affection?  Can he tell what that name does to me?  Can he feel the heat burning in my cheeks at the mere thought of him? The twisting ache in my chest?  Does he know that I’m Elio too?

He snaps his fingers like he’s just remembered.  “Elio.  Elio, that’s right.”

I struggle to breathe.

“How old is he now?”

“17. He’ll be 18 in January.”

If that’s a tell, I don’t know what is.  But the esteemed professor either doesn’t notice or chooses not to

“Time flies.  You watch, that boy will take over the world someday.”

He leaves me sitting in the small graduate assistant office I share with two other classmates.  

 _Take over the world?  No, Elio’s too smart for that._  I think.  He’s certainly taken over something, though and it pounds furiously in my chest.

*

_“Tomorrow is our last day in B. Mom and Mafalda have been running around like two crazy people getting the house ready.  Dad just hides in his office._

_“And you?”_

_“I escape to the post office to call you.”_

_“I’m glad you did.”_

_“I just...I needed to speak to you once more while I’m still here.  I think it’s been easier for me. I can imagine you’ve just gone into town to meet with your translator and will be back for dinner.  To sleep in our bed.  What if it feels like it never happened once I’m gone?”_

_"It won’t, I promise you.  I should know, I’m half way across the world and sometimes I can’t breathe I miss you so much...  Elio?  Elio, are you crying? Elio, please don’t.”_

_"I’m a mess, Oliver…”_

_“Damn it.  This is exactly what I was afraid of.  Maybe we should never have...”_

_“Don’t say that...”_

_“I didn’t...”_

_“....Don’t ever fucking say that again.”_

_“I won’t, I won’t, I swear.  You know I don’t mean it.  It’s just we knew this day was coming, right from the beginning.  I just didn’t realize….”_

_“What?”_

_“That it would hurt this much.”_

*

I yearn for the coolness of fall.  Each summer day belongs to Elio even though it is the wrong kind of heat, the wrong kind of sun.  Perhaps if the leaves start changing and the air cools, requiring a shift in wardrobe, getting dressed in the morning won’t lead to thoughts like, _I was wearing this when_ or _He borrowed this one once_.  Maybe, I’d finally start to miss him less.

I begin teaching my classes after Labor Day, massive freshman seminars that they wouldn’t waste on a tenured professor, so are dumped on me instead.  I get a marginal, adjunct salary for the classes. After all, I’m technically still a student, sort of.  Post-Doc.  Not a professional, not a student. It’s an uneasy balance to find.

The letters from Italy come in and go out with regularity.  I hear from Vimini as well as the Perlman’s.  But it is Elio’s letters that I savor.  At night, I lay in my bed and read each note from Elio in chronological order.  I notice the way his tone changes, from bereft and desperate to accepting our new normal.  

Is he handling this better than me?  I wouldn’t be surprised.

_I went to this back-to-school party the other night with some mates.  There was a boy there from the class below me.  I’d never really noticed him before but it was like he could tell, you know?  Like, he knew what I’d done this past summer with you.  Eventually, he followed me to the bathroom and told me he wanted to kiss me.  I wouldn’t let him so I let him blow me instead.  Does that make you jealous?  Please tell me that makes you jealous._

I reach beneath the sheets, under the fabric of my boxers and take myself into my hand.  I imagine Elio with this other person, a boy his own age with far less experience than me.  And instead of jealousy, I feel my dick harden.  I imagine the sounds Elio would make, the look on his face as he comes undone.  I imagine him comparing me to him in the moment.

Am I jealous it is not me with Elio’s cock in my mouth?  Immeasurably.  I would give away my whole life to be back there in B. or in Rome touching him, holding him.  I’d open a vein just to sit beside him in Heaven once more.  But as I come, crying out his name which becomes my name which becomes his again, the idea that he’s getting pleasure from another person leaves me relieved.  And oddly proud.

I write him back, the flush of my orgasm still high on my cheeks.

_Of course it makes me jealous.  I’d be happy to never have another man or woman touch you for the rest of our lives so that my body is the only one that makes you feel those things.  But since I can’t be there, all I ask is that you don’t keep it from me.  Tell me about every act, every lover.  Tell me everything.  Imagine that I’m there with you when you kiss someone for the first time, when you take them to bed.  I’m watching and you’re beautiful._

_How fucked up is it to want you only for myself but take some twisted joy that you’re wanted by others at the same time?  See, I told you I wished everyone were as sick as you._

As sick as me.

*

I wait another week before I call Trish.

She shows up at my apartment the next day, her hair dyed blonde and teased out, her jeans rolled at her ankles.  She’s cut the collar out of her tee-shirt and it hangs off to the side, revealing one golden shoulder, criss-crossed by tanlines.  She looks good, like she made an effort.

In the three years I’ve known her we’ve been split up just as much as we’ve been together, and we’re both to blame for that.  She’s from Long Island.  Everything has been laid at her feet her whole life, daddy always there to pick up the pieces when she can’t keep her life together. Phone calls to the Dean or a wad of cash to soften the blow.  

Our parents know each other, friends of friends form some synagogue or something.  When we’d both ended up in the city at the same time, they’d thought ‘Perfect! Match made!’.  And for as pretty a pair we are, we are complete shit as a couple - neither of us really equipped for the type of relationship our parents are expecting.

 And yet there is a type of love between us, I suppose, though that word doesn’t seem right and never really has.  Especially now.  Maybe it’s just dependency, each other’s safety net.  I ignore the lines of coke and nights out she uses as a coping mechanism when what she really needs is medication and therapy. Just like she pretends not to know who I bring to my bed during those in between times when we’re not together, and even sometimes when we still are.

 Maybe, when it comes down to it, we’re both too afraid of letting out parents down, again, to give up on each other for good.

 “I thought you might have called.  Or at least written.”

 She sounds nervous.  I apologize.  “We’d split up.”

 “Yeah,” she says, laughing gently.  It’s like a joke between us now.  “Did you take pictures?”

 “A few.  I was busy.”

 “Course.”

 It’s painfully awkward and we both know it.  I don’t know if I can go back to playing this game anymore, not after what’s happened.  

 She hangs her purse over the back of a chair and moves to kiss me.  I pull back and her dark eyes scan my face.  Between the drama, there has been laughter.  Honesty.  There are times where I think if came out and lived my life openly, she and I could actually be the best of friends.  There were even times, early on, I think she tried to insinuate that would be a better option.   

 I kiss her back.

 Does she notice my hesitation as we fall onto my bed?  The way I nearly flinch away when I put my hand between her thighs and feel the wetness of her soft folds, because I’d been wanting something else?  Does she notice my silence as I come?  The way I can’t open my eyes?

We go through the motions, but it’s a bland, emotionless fuck.  She could be anyone and I’m pretty sure I could be too. I try not to think of Elio, as conjuring memories of him in this moment of emptiness feels like a complete betrayal to everything we shared.  But of course, I do, finding it impossible not to compare.

 It’s not about her having the wrong equipment.  It’s more than that.  She’s has the wrong angles.  Her body is the wrong size.  She doesn’t smell right.  Her skin is way too soft.  She makes the wrong sounds.  Having sex with women is satisfying enough. It gets the job done but it’s like eating a meal that is slightly under seasoned and cold.   

 I think I yelled that at her once during a fight.   I’d been drunk and she’d stormed out.

 “Were the Italian girls pretty?”  She asks after, her hair splayed across the pillow next to me.

 I think of Chiara and Marzia and how easily Trish has left me with the perfect opportunity to lie.  Has she done that on purpose?

 “There may have been a few,” I say and give her a coy smile, one she’s too smart not to read right through.  She slides her body closer anyway.

 “I missed you, you know.”  She kisses me and it’s ok.  “I always miss you when you’re not here, Ollie.  I’m glad you’re home.”  

 But my home is sun-drenched and dry.  It’s dark curls and cheekbones with the faint smattering of freckles.  My home is 5000 miles away in a old Italian villa or in their city home with a fountain in the interior courtyard or wherever on this Earth he happens to be.

 She crawls on top of me, languid and demanding.  Her nails traily up my inner thigh and my body betrays me.  Perhaps it too is used to the lies.

 *

_I find myself thinking of you at the weirdest times.  Like I was just brushing my teeth the other day before class and I remember the second morning in Rome (ok, it was well afternoon who are we kidding!).  You kissed me, first thing, when you woke up.  You still tasted like booze and sick but I loved it.  Loved feeling you close to me.  Then you went into the bathroom and kissed me again when you came back.  You tasted like mint, pure and clean.  The whole night of debauchery washed away._

  _Fuck, Elio - I miss you._

 *

 The weekend before Halloween, he calls me twice, which is twice more than we’ve managed in over a month.  His parents are gone for the weekend so he boisterous, chatting loudly in his empty house.  He tells me about school.  About getting drunk with his friends, this girl he made out with.  I do the same.  I even tell him I’ve started seeing Trish again.  

 “Nothing serious?”  He asks, but I can tell by the way he mouths words that he’s worried.

 “Nothing serious,” I confirm, truthfully.

 In that moment, we’re not sad to miss each other.  So when he is about to hang up, I say it.

 There is silence for a moment as he hears the words we never got around to saying during the summer.  We were too busy feeling the words, showing them to each other.  Living the emotion.

 “Je t’aime, aussi,” he breathes across the line.  “Te amo.  Ich liebe dich.”  He says it in every language he knows, Romantic and dead, fluent or not, then finally,  “Oliver, I love you.”

 It’s confirmation of everything.  Every look, every touch, every conversation laden with honesty.  Every kiss, every night, every second of missing him.  Those words, they mean as much to him as they mean to me.  It wasn’t a dream, I think.  It was real.

 “You are my heart of hearts.”  My pulse is soaring. I’ve never said anything so honest in my life.

 “Cor cordium,” he repeats back in a whisper.  I could cry.

 Jeff catches me just moments after I hang up the phone, slouched back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.  I’m completely blissed out.

 “Someone’s happy.”

 I can’t speak, so I nod vigorously.  He looks down at me, skeptical.

 “This not your usual reaction when you get back together with Trish.”

 “This isn’t about Trish.”

 He notices the phone, the small scrap of paper with well worn creases, a slew of numbers - access and country codes - next to it.

 “I knew it.  There was someone in Italy, wasn’t there, una bella donna.” His Italian isn’t half bad for a woefully under-traveled kid from Ohio.  

 “No, Jeff.”

 It’s like a plea for him to understand.   

He’s the only person I’ve ever said the words out loud to.  It was junior year, we were drunk, both on the verge of sleep which really was just a nice way of saying, passing out.  I’d spent all night making eyes with a guy across the room.  I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me, but underneath the steely gazes of want we exchanged, there was this exceptional relief.  I mean, we’d gone to a school where when we reached the line from our fight song _We come from old Virginia, Where all is bright and gay,_ the entire football stadium would immediately shout “Not gay!” before moving onto the next lyric.  Yet we’d found each other at this random party on a Friday night, found kinship.  I still don’t know who he is, to this day.

 Of course, instead of acting on it, I’d danced with a girl from my Latin in Translation seminar all night, eventually making out with her on the dance floor until her sorority sisters pulled her away.  Jeff had asked me if I was going to ask her out next week, you know, for an actual date.

 “Naw,” I’d said.

 “Why not?  She obviously likes you.”

“Because, I’d rather date guys.”  The words had been shockingly easy to say.  Jeff had remained silent.  The sheets on his bed hadn’t even rustled.  “I’m pretty sure I’m gay, Jeff.”

“Ok,” he’d said, the word shaped in a way that let me know that a) he believed me and wasn’t going to freak out and b) he was willing to listen.  

 He says the same word now, in the same way, as he sits on the couch.  “Tell me about him.”

 I laugh breathlessly, thinking that is perhaps the greatest gift any friend has ever given me.

 *

 " _Let’s go to Paris.”_

  _“Mmm, Paris in November.  I don’t think that’s how that song goes.”_

  _“You don’t know, it could snow.  That would be romantic.”_

  _“It could also just rain.”_

  _“Spoil sport.”_

  _“I’d love to take you Paris, Elio.  I’d take you anywhere.”_

  _“We could go to the Le Marais and I could hold your hand as we walk through the streets.”_

  _“Like we did in Rome.”_

  _“Do you think we’ll ever get that again?  The chance to just be--?”_

  _“Together?  I don’t know, Elio. I hope so but...I really don’t know.”_

 *

 By Thanksgiving, all evidence of the Italian sun has faded from my skin.  I catch my reflection in the mirror and think I look ill.  

 My first conscious thought in the morning is no longer that of timezone math, jumping ahead six hours and imagining exactly what he’s doing at that exact moment.  When that happens and I’m alone, I hate that I’ve lost that urgency, so I pen him a quick note and run to the end of my block to drop it in the mailbox before I make my morning coffee.  Other days, if Trish is there, I slip from my bed, dress in layers and run longer than usual.

I go home to Connecticut for the holiday.

My father died when I was 19, only a few weeks into the fall semester of my sophomore year, so it’s just me and mom now.  One might think that this would have left us closer, but it hasn’t.  Our relationship exists at the intersection of maternal expectation and marginal disgust at who I really am.  She, just like my father, has always suspected my proclivities and done everything in their power to deny them.  They’re good Jews, after all, the type who hold funerals for their sons when they come out as gay.   As long as I never actually dated a man, everyone in my family was fine to leave the subject well alone.

But if I ever did, I’d be on my own.  For good.

“I spoke with Trish’s mother the other day. We’re both so pleased that two have been seeing each other again.”

I’ve had too much to drink to be having this conversation and I bite my tongue before I say something crass.  I wonder what she would think if she knew that less than four months ago I’d had the cock of 17 year old man in my hand, my mouth, up my ass and I loved it.  

 _There wouldn’t be enough pearls in all of the Pacific to clutch, dear mother,_ I think and she tuts at the smirk that develops on my face.

“She’s a good girl, Oliver.”

I know what that means. “She’s never once gone to synagogue in the entire time I’ve know her,” I say. “I don’t even know if she considers herself Jewish.”

“But you do.  And her parents are.  And your children would be.”

Children. Good god.  

“You should do the right thing, Oliver.  Propose.  Don’t you want to do the right thing?  Your father would be so pleased if he knew that you finally settled down.”

Her hand is expertly played, touching on all my insecurities, those Freudian issues that only years of therapy can touch.

She gives me her grandmother’s ring before I leave.  It’s a simple setting, a single diamond, delicate but sparkling.  I hate that my first thought when I look at it is, _She’d probably actually really like this_.  I stuff it at the bottom of my duffle bag with anger.

I write Elio as soon as I’m back in my apartment, not even bothering to take my coat off.

_I just want to you to know, that no matter what happens, I am so grateful that I met you.  My time with you will forever be the best days of my life.  You’re young and maybe I see overly dramatic, but  I can’t begin to explain what being with you gave me.  No matter how many years pass, no matter who else comes into our lives, I will always love you, Elio.  Please believe me.  Nothing will change that.  The time we spent together is a static point in time for me.  When things were perfect and I felt more alive than I ever have. You are now and forever my cor cordium.  I just hope, eventually, you can understand and forgive me._

 I don’t finish the letter.  I collapse into my bed and cry the way I should have in August.  

The next morning I re-read my hastily written words.  I rip them up and put them in the trash. Then I make two phone calls: first to book a table at a fancy restaurant with views of the Park and second, to buy a plane ticket to Italy.  

*

_Everyone is so excited you’re coming to visit.  Some days I think my dad is more stoked that I am?  Something you need to tell me about you and my dad?  Just kidding.  That was twisted, sorry._

_They’ve started asking me about next year.  College and all that.  They all think it would be a good idea to go to the States for school, get that experience.  What do you think?  Would you like it, if I were closer?  Would that change things?_

_I sound all needy, but I just haven’t heard from you in a while.  And I know we’re not a couple or anything, but are we ok?_

*

I propose to Trish. I figure a public place is for the best, takes the pressure off of actually making it intimate and meaningful.

“Seriously?”  She asks but it isn’t one of those, hands clasped to her heart, ‘I can’t believe this moment I’ve dreamt of my whole life is finally here’.  She really means ‘Seriously?’.

I tell her of course I’m serious.  I give her a charming smile I hope she buys.

She says, “Yes” after several moments of consideration during which I think a public place was actually a really fucking awful idea.  The other diners cheer.  The restaurant brings us champagne.

 I am keenly aware of feeling absolutely nothing.

The night before I leave for Italy, Trish sits in my fire escape and smokes.  The air that comes through the open window is bitter cold.

“Do you really want this?”  I don’t know what she’s talking about at first.  But then I catch the somber look on her face, the way she keeps toying with the ring.  “Cards on the table, Ollie.  It’s just you and me tonight.  No parents.  No judgement.  Who is this guy in Italy?”

“Did Jeff say…”

“No, believe it or not, I figured that one out all on my own,” she smiles and smothers her cigarette.  “You were never going to fall in love with a woman.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  I’m not mad.  I’m not really even that upset.  We tried, you and me.  No one can ever say we didn’t try.”

I feel a weight lift off of me that I think I’ve been carrying for years.  

“Does he make you happy?”

I love him, I want to say, but that just seems cruel.  For the first time in my life, I’d let desire and romance collide with epic, life altering results.  Yes, I was happy.  More than happy, I was finally me.  Instead I slump down onto the couch, catching my hands together between my knees.

“It doesn’t matter.  He’s young, maybe too young.  And he lives 5,000 miles away.  It was the best thing that’s ever happened to me but I don’t know...I’m not sure how viable it is in reality.”

I think of my mother’s reaction.  All the experiences Elio will and should have that I’ve already lived. It would be messy and complicated and perfect.

Trisha takes another cigarette out of the pack and taps it on the table, filter side down.  I’ve always wondered why smokers do that.

“Let’s plan the wedding for sometime in the summer.  I’ll wait until we’re getting close, a month before maybe, before they have to start making final payments on stuff.  Then I'll tell my mother I’ve called it off.  That you’re heart broken.  She won’t be surprised that I’ve fucked things up again.  That should buy you at least another six months before your mom gets on your case again.  I don’t know, maybe by then, the two of you can be dealing with a different reality.  One where it does make sense.”

I realize what she’s offering, the one thing Elio and I never had enough of: time to try.  I’ve never loved her more.

“Why would you do this?”

She shifts close on the couch, touches my face softly.  “One of us should be happy, right?  Now, go pack your bags, you love sick idiot.”

*

_"Pronto?"_

_"Mafalda?_ _E Elio a casa?"_

_"Signore Ulliva?"_

" _Si, si...d’ove Elio?"_

_"Lui e qui.  Lo prenderò, si, si.  Un minuto."_

_"Hello?"_

_"Elio, it’s me."_

_"Oliver?"_

_"Yeah, I’m here."_

_"I can’t really hear you.  Where are you?"_

_"I’m at the airport."_

_"Is something wrong?  Is, is,... it your flight?  You’re not coming, are you."_

_"No, of course I’m coming.  I’m all checked in, my flight leaves in an 45 minutes."_

_"Then why are you calling me?"_

_"It’s been a while."_

_"Yeah."_

_"And I realized I never replied to that letter you sent about college in the states."_

_"Oh.  Yeah, you don't need..."_

_"You should do that."_

_"I...what?"_

_"You should come to school here.  I mean, if you want."_

_"I should?"_

_"Definitely.  And when I’m there we should talk, really talk, about what that could look like.  It won’t be easy, Elio.  We could both end up really hurt again."_

_"Or we could not.  We gotta at least try."_

_"I think so, too."_

_"Elio...Elio, Elio, Elio, Elio."_

_"I’ll see you soon, Oliver."_

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting, kudoing and reblogging!
> 
> I really struggled with putting them together at the end. It feels like Elio is too young to be with his forever person. But then I remember my friend who started dating his partner of close to 20 years when my friend was a senior in HS and his partner was in his 30's. They're still together, so it happens.
> 
> Some additional thoughts:  
> 1) Finding Oliver's voice was hard. And I admit to be very influenced by Armie's voice here. The way he talks in interviews etc. It's not as flowery as Elio's voice in the book and that is on purpose.  
> 2) I've also been totally haunted by Armie's strained relationship with his parents, especially his mother. That definitely came into play here.  
> 3) The fight song I quote is from University of Virginia. They actually do shout "No Gay" at the football games. It's gross.  
> 4) I thought about making the ending my angsty, or ambiguous, but at the end of the day, I went for full on Cinderalla, happily ever after. Whatever. We deserve it. And so do the boys.  
> 5) It really does rain on the NJ Transit track at Penn Station. And I kind of hate NYC so that first part worked out perfectly for me. lol  
> 6) I tried to inflect as much tone into the phone calls as possible. The ellipses are meant to be pauses or places their talking overlaps. I hope it makes sense.  
> 7) I also think Oliver is gay, not bi, as opposed to Elio and think there are hints all over the book that insinuate that. I'm happy to chat about it if you want. I'm not into Bi-erasure so I'm open to your thoughts!  
> 8) I also think there is a possibility in the text that Oliver's dad is dead. Bye, ass hole.


End file.
